


Forbidden Fruit.

by teofse



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Romance, WIP, mention of past off-screen torture, references to cultural homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-02-22 11:58:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2506988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teofse/pseuds/teofse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is forbidden fruit to me. He is hopeless longing. He is the most bittersweet dream I've ever dreamed and the one treasure my status as a lowly warrior of this golden realm will never allow me to grasp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 **Title** **:** **Forbidden Fruit.**

 **Author** **:** Teofse

 **Rating** **:** probably NC-17 by the time it's done.

 **Pairing** **:** **Fandral/Loki**

 **Genre** **:** Slash. Romance.

 **Word** **Count** **:** **5904**

 **Warnings** **:** Unbetaed. This is a **WIP** **.** Post Avengers AU. Disregards Thor: The Dark World in its entirety.

 **Disclaimer** **:** Don't own these characters. No money is being made out of this work.

 **Summary** **:** He is forbidden fruit to me. He is hopeless longing. He is the most bittersweet dream I've ever dreamed and the one treasure my status as a lowly warrior of this golden realm will never allow me to grasp.

 **A/N:** A while back a reader of mine sent me some links to a few slash MCU fanvids, requesting I write a story for one of them. I was immediately intrigued by  _[ **this one**](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TFtsORrxfGg)_ ** _,_** because it featured a fandroki pairing and I had never even considered that dynamic before. Unfortunately, this story's plot has taken on a life of its own and now it is so loosely based on the video that inspired it that all resemblance to it will be seen in flashbacks. I still hope that you'll enjoy it nevertheless. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to explore this lovely pairing.

 

**Forbidden Fruit.**

He is forbidden fruit to me. He is hopeless longing. He is the most bittersweet dream I've ever dreamed and the one treasure my status as a lowly warrior of this golden realm will never allow me to grasp, no matter how famous a fighter I've become along the years or how 'charming' I've proved myself to be in these last few centuries to both maidens and warriors alike.

They call him the Liesmith. The Silvertongue. The Argr. The Trickster. A coward... I've listened to the whispers with heartbreak weighing me down year after year, but have never dared to raise neither voice nor sword in his defense. I, the one warrior who has always been in love with our young sorcerer prince should have found within my heart enough courage to defend him before it was too late to save him. Before it was too late to keep him. Before every one of us, myself included, had driven him so far away from our hearts that he convinced himself that seeking the oblivion of the abyss would be less traumatic, less painful, than putting his faith in our willingness to help him.

Nobody called him the Liesmith while his brother mourned him. Nobody called him the Argr when it became clear that he had fought -and killed- king Laufey himself in hand to hand combat, driven to that ultimate triumph not by physical strength, but by sheer stubborn will and the undeniable desire to protect the Allfather's life. No one is daring to call him Silvertongue now that he has finally been brought back home in chains. Muzzled like a beast. Charged with a veritable mountain of unspeakable crimes that he isn't even trying to deny.

His brother looks upon him with pale-faced disappointment. His father is so clearly furious that the entire room is shaking with barely contained power as we all stand and stare, waiting to hear his excuses. His explanations. His attempts to defend acts that we all know are pretty impossible to defend.

Loki doesn't seem to care that he's the center of attention. He hasn't spared a glance for neither Thor nor the king. He hasn't bothered to sneer at a single one of the guards or smirk at the masses that have flocked to the palace in order to see him judged. He has eyes for no one save his mother. She, and she alone, he addresses in a soft tone as soon as the muzzle he wears is removed. She, and she alone, is singled out and honored by her disgraced child before the whole of Asgard. She, and she alone, is beloved beyond every shade of doubt by the look our young prince bestows upon her. By the small, timid step he takes towards her a mere second before the guards flanking him tighten their hands on his chains, forcing him to remain pinned to the spot. Exposing him wordlessly for what he has become: a prisoner in his own home. Welcome no longer.

He smiles bitterly as his attempt to move forward comes to a sudden, unwilling, halt and his eyes look down towards his wrists and ankles, towards the slender waist that looks so pitifully dwarfed by the heavy metal that encases it with the trappings of the unworthy. He acknowledges no one as his gaze lifts back up and his thin shoulders shrug with rebellious nonchalance. There is pride in his posture, but there is also carelessness. He's a man without roots, without friends, without realm. He's a dangerous vagabond. An enemy willing to ignore the Allfather himself in favor of speaking to the queen, making her the clear recipient of the only words he utters during what he must be aware will be his only chance to defend both himself and his actions:  
“I am sorry, mother. I am so sorry. I know you would have wanted me to be strong enough, but I wasn't. I—I simply... wasn't.“

Frigga gasps as if struck and takes an agitated step forwards. Her husband's royal spear attempts to come between her and the steps that will lead her from the throne dais down to the main floor, where the accused is standing, but she bypasses the mighty weapon in a flurry of rich skirts, golden hair and the strongest maternal instinct of any woman in Asgard. 

She reaches her youngest child before anyone can stop her, pale hand extended to cradle a bruised cheek with enough love to drown the deserts of Muspelheim under waves of pure affection.  “I lost sight of you, dearest. My threads tangled in my hands every time I tried to reach you. I could not weave you into a tapestry, no matter how hard I tried. I persisted, day after day, but I... I couldn't bring you forth, Loki. Your colors kept slipping through my fingers. Knotted ribbons of green and black and gold have become the symbol of my failure to help you.”

Bright green eyes look upon her teary face with pained regret and his voice becomes even softer, almost as if he's daring us all to listen to the words he's so clearly only speaking for her benefit:  
“I was too far away, mother. I'm sure you wouldn't have failed otherwise.”

“I was aware that you weren't dead but I couldn't bring you forth, and I... I feared what speaking out may mean for you, for your safety. All your threads kept on tangling as soon as I dared to touch them... They snapped so easily that I feared the worst. I should have set out to find you all by myself, son. I should have never trusted that you could -and would- find a way to come back home. Not when I knew something was so very wrong with you. You didn't have your magic, did you? That's why I could never make true contact.”

His smile is small, but obviously heartfelt. His eyes close ever so briefly and he looks so very pale, so very fragile in his ruined battle leathers and bruised skin that my heart aches inside my chest and my mind screams at me to be brave, once and for all, and find the courage I need to walk towards him, just like his mother has done, and offer him my protection. I ache to hold him with equal affection and have him submit to the kind of adoring touch he hasn't let me lay upon his flesh since the night he begged me to accept the gift of his virginity. I shouldn't have let him go afterwards. I should have risked my name, my sword, my everything to keep him by my side but I was too much of a coward. I had too many things to lose then and I chose to abandon the one thing I should have fought for. The one thing I've never been worthy of.

Now his silence is so deafening that the entire room shakes with it. Every soul is standing to attention in the space between one blink and the next, poised between the desire to hear him defend himself, agree with his mother or invent whatever other nefarious plot he thinks we may believe, and the instant when we finally realize he has no intention of doing such a thing. Frigga's wounded sob forces his eyelids apart once again and he looks at her so lovingly, so solemnly, that it's easy to understand he's telling her goodbye in his own way. He is letting go of her in his own terms.

“Don't do this, sweetheart, please... Don't deny the truth. I know something happened to you. I felt it, Loki. You weren't there, as easily reachable as you've always been. Something was holding you back. Something kept your powers muted, your strength at bay. Something tried to harm you while you were so far away, and I shouldn't have allowed my maternal pride to convince me that you were strong enough to defeat whatever it was on your own.”

Dark hair slips, like ink-stained water, through her fingertips when he lifts his face away from her cradling palm. Frigga's wounded gasp of protest is so loud that some of us flinch where we stand, but Loki doesn't react to the sound in any way. He's closing himself off without a word of apology to anyone, without a single look back. He appears for all intents and purposes like a man who has said all he's willing to say about the subject and my stomach drops all the way to the gleaming floor as I become aware of what I've now lived long enough to witness: the Trickster of Asgard is broken. He either doesn't know the right words to free himself from the punishment that awaits him, or has no actual desire to voice them. He's committing suicide before the whole of Asgard for the second time since Thor was vanished, because we all know that to remain silent in the face of the grievous accusations laid at his feet will force the Allfather to bring the full force of the law upon his head.

“Loki...”

“Brother...”

Both, Thor and his mother attempt to take hold of him but he shakes them off by taking a small step backwards. The entire court freezes as his chains rattle loudly, everybody blinks in dazed disbelief at the gall of this green-eyed, dark-haired youngling. No one is able to comprehend how the disgraced, chained, Argr child of the Allfather has found the courage to shun the love of those who are still willing to fight in his corner. He's scorning two of the most powerful figures in the realm at a time when he needs their support the most. At a time when his very life is resting on the strength of their affection.

Odin himself has now risen from his throne. He stands still like a statue, lone blue eye fixed like a weapon on the head of the son who is rumored to have slain a Frost Giant for his sake.  
“The Norns have conspired to keep us apart until this second, son. You fell from the Bifrost before we had time to finish our last conversation, yet you have no words for me. No questions. No accusations... Why have you returned carrying nothing but silence, Loki?”

The king's voice is uncharacteristically rough. His question echoes off the walls like a jagged and broken demand. An awful sound that carries a million shards of pain and the impossible weight of the most hopeless hope. It is something still full of a thousand possibilities that have no other option but to die as soon as the prisoner answers.  
“I am tired of words. They mean nothing in the face of actions and ours, both yours and mine, have said more than enough.”

“That would only apply if your actions were your own, Loki. I have erred of inaction where you are concerned. But you... you saved my life before you fell into the abyss.”

“I did not fall by accident and I haven't returned willingly. I am your captive, Allfather. A prisoner of war. I demand to be judged by this court as harshly as I deserve. Enemies of Midgard are enemies of Asgard. And enemies of Asgard are always put to death.”

Frigga's sob is loud and distressed, it rings clear with the sound of her heartbreak even over the astonished gasps of every warrior, lady and courtier present here today. My heart pounds and my gaze blurs with a shameful film of bitter tears that I'm grateful everyone is too distracted to notice. I feel faint with sheer horror and there's not a bone in my body that isn't aching with the knowledge that he's openly building his own burial pyre.

The king's ravens shoot up towards the ceiling as his words begin to fade. They circle his defiantly held head like a plumed crown or a black halo, but he doesn't look at them. He doesn't react to their unusual behavior either when they suddenly alight on his shoulders, clawing deeply onto his battle leathers and tearing into the material until they pierce his pale skin in their scrabble to find purchase on a frame that was never meant to support them.

His father stares at him fiercely, regal blue eye dimmed with only the Norns know what sorrows, as he stands before his own throne and allows the weight of his thought and his memory to both dwarf and burden the slight figure of his youngest child.  
“You are too thin and too tired to have been living in the luxury most realms afford the high ranking generals they select to lead their armies. You look far too weak for your ailments to have been caused by the relative small skirmish Thor has described to me. You fought for less than a week against mortals who should have never, ever, managed to match you, let alone defeat you, Loki.”

The king pauses in his assessment, regal head cocked slightly to the right and downwards, clearly focused on the sorcerer he's addressing as he waits for the accused to speak up. He waits first a second and then two. He waits heartbeat after heartbeat after that, until more than five minutes have passed and not a single sound has crossed the lips of the one they call the Liesmith.  
“Do you not think it wise to shed some light on these concerns?” Odin asks finally only to sigh with frustration when the prince shrugs in response. “Then you'll have to stand there and listen to me as I attempt to understand them without your input, for you desire a fair trial, do you not? And we both know that fairness can't be achieved when there are doubts of foul play.”

“I invaded Midgard with a Chitauri army. Thor was there. He saw me with his own eyes. He fought against me and defeated me. There is no doubt about any of it, Allfather.”

“Yes. It is fact that you invaded Midgard and that you had strong allies. Beasts of might and power who took over most of the fight while you directed proceedings from a safe distance, yet you're drained past your usually inextinguishable reserves, Loki. Your mind is scrambled. Your heart pounds not with the fear of the defeated, but with the relief of the freed. I can not help but think that you _wanted_ to end up here, and if that is at all accurate then I must ponder on why and how such goal could have been achieved.  
  
“Your mother claims you were weakened, separated from your magic for long periods of time that made you unreachable to her. I know you were blocked off from me and that Heimdall couldn't locate you, either. He could not sense the usual veil you like to cloak yourself in. Your magical signature was gone altogether, Loki. We could never locate you because we couldn't sense you. We declared you dead because we thought you were so and that begs the question of what, exactly, does it take to remove all trace of a sorcerer as strong as you are from all corners of the universe. Do you have an answer for me now?”

Loki laughs. His green eyes become narrow and cold, mirthless beyond description, but he snorts for all he's worth and shakes his head from left to right.  
“You are clutching at straws, Alffather.”

Odin smiles like a predator scenting blood:  
“Am I? Tell me, Loki: when was the last time you won a battle against Thor?”

Loki's head rears back as if his father has delivered a bone-crunching slap to his cheek. The question pierces Thor's composure too, and he takes a couple of hasty steps forwards, attempting to position himself between the Allfather and his brother like a golden, living shield. Always willing to protect the young man who's never been strong enough to best him from the harshness of the world.  
“Father, please, don't...”

“Silence!” The entire court jumps a mile high upon hearing the king snarl that single command at his firstborn. Huginn and Muninn fly upwards once again, cackling and clawing at Thor, forcing the heir to the throne to step unwillingly away from the dark-haired brother who stands before all, still chained, waiting to hear his sentence.

Loki's face is pale and haughty. His bleeding shoulders shrug with deceptive self-deprecation and his smile is Jotun-cold when he points out:  
“You know the answer to that question as well as I do, Allfather.”

A ruthless blue eye clashes with furious green and the king of Asgard comes down from his throne dais, one step after another, until he's done the utterly unthinkable and placed himself at the same level as the prisoner he's judging. He raises his ringed hands and takes hold of Loki's struggling head, grasping it against the sorcerer's will. Holding his son's visage captive in clear view of the congregation.  
“I wish to hear you say it, child. I want you to tell the court you have challenged to judge you with utmost harshness exactly why it is impossible for it to do so. I want you to tell us all how you used your own brother to defeat the beasts who kept you in their thrall, because it is becoming abundantly clear that you would have never managed to defeat them on your own. There were too many of them and you were only one. They managed to either remove or disable your one true strength when they hindered your access to your magic. They attempted to subjugate a prince of this realm and forgot in their stupidity that you are also known as the Trickster. You couldn't fight them, so you tricked them. Didn't you, son?”

If Loki's glare could kill on command then mighty Odin would be meeting his end right about now. The prince's pale throat contracts as he swallows, and he attempts to pull his face free of his father's grip without success.  
“I led the Chitauri's invasion of Midgard. That is hardly the behavior of a helpless little victim.”

“That is true. You, renowned battle strategist of the realm of Asgard, led a bottle-neck invasion on a planet you knew to be under your brother's protection. You, clever, cunning child of mine, purposely delivered your so called 'allies' directly into defeat, and that is something you have never done in all the years you've been planning strategies to aid us in battle. You lost your war because you wanted to lose it. What's more, you could have easily avoided capture if your magic is as intact as you claim it is. You could have teleported yourself to safety during the chaos of battle yet you did nothing of the sort. Why not, Loki? Why didn't you use your magic to it's full, damaging potential? Why didn't you run away?”

“Because I couldn't. The Hulk...”

“That beast wouldn't have caught you, unless you allowed it to do so.”

“You think I wanted to be smashed on the floor like a flimsy, little toy?”

“That is enough!” Odin rages, shaking the prisoner's face with enough strength to rattle Loki's entire frame.

“Father, please...” Thor steps forwards once again, taking hold of the king's left shoulder in what looks like a pretty doomed attempt to pull him away from the sorcerer.

The Allfather shakes his firstborn off like a flimsy dust mite, royal anger and paternal consideration blending into a startling mix of ferocious disappointment that rolls off the king like a vapor in the stillness of the silence that follows. Thor takes two steps away and Loki cringes when with a single harsh command the king has his loyal crows descending back towards the prisoner and all but claw the back of his robes away from him in a flurry of wildly fluttering black wings and rattling chains. Odin holds his child's ashen face throughout the entire ordeal, resisting his struggles to gain freedom and crooning softly at him, telling him to stop fighting. To stop lying. To stop tormenting them both with his pointless act of defiance.

Utter silence reigns supreme when Huginn and Muninn fly finally away, mangled pieces of bloody leather trailing in their wake as they rise higher and higher. Loki's back is now mostly bare, exposed to every eye in the throne room like a fact that can not be denied. There, where an expanse of flawless skin should have been, is a mass of bleeding muscles and scars that make everybody flinch. Gasp upon gasp fill the entire room with outrage as the queen's sorrowful sob sparks a chain reaction that keeps gaining fierce support as the seconds tick away and everyone keeps looking from that terribly mangled back to the cuffs that hold the Trickster's hands together. We all know those cuffs are keeping his magic at bay, they are literally guaranteeing that this man can not cast an illusion. Loki is currently unable to project this gruesome mirage on his own back and everybody knows it. He hadn't even wanted to expose the damage to us in the first place...

“What else are your clothes hiding, Loki? Shall I demand you be stripped for all of us to see more proof that you were indeed a 'helpless little victim' or are you willing to let yourself be helped?” The king asks coldly then and his voice cuts across the charged atmosphere like a spear slices through an enemy, bringing the entire room to silence.

“I did this to myself years ago. We had lost a skirmish with the Fire Demons and I came back home determined to master advanced defensive magic. I cast something in error and was far too ashamed of my failure to seek medical assistance at the time.”

“Why are you doing this, brother? Why do you keep sabotaging every proof of your innocence Father brings to light? The shame of having been a victim of foul play doesn't rest with you, but with us, Loki. We are the ones who lost you to unknown foes and failed to retrieve you. We allowed only the Norns know what atrocities to be inflicted upon a prince of this realm and then brought you here in chains to face public trial, instead of wrapping you in our loving arms and vow vengeance in your name.”

Loki glares first at his father, then at Thor with enough scorn to leave everybody breathless.  
“There is nothing to avenge. I did this to myself years ago. You can't prove that I didn't, so you must judge me according to the facts your eyes saw, not according to whatever wistful thinking is driving you to invent—what? A kidnapping? I didn't fall from the Bifrost by accident, Thor, I let go on purpose!”

Odin shakes his head then, looking suddenly as old and gnarled as the branches of Yggdrasil itself. He seems utterly defeated when his hands fall away from Loki's face and the motion looks so worryingly like surrender that my heart skips a beat and my breath hitches with horror. Here stands the king of Asgard: powerless to help a wounded innocent in the face of Loki's own refusal to admit weakness. Here stands the golden heir to the throne, bewildered and defeated in a battle he can't win because his foe is far too clever, far too stubborn, far too well versed in the letter of the law. Here stands the entirety of Asgard, poised on the verge of losing one of the greatest minds to ever walk these hallowed halls because we simply lack the wit to match it, and here I stand, shattering like glass as I stare at the dark-haired treasure I let slip through my fingers even though he once gave me the chance to... wait. Wait—I once laid in Loki's bed. I have seen him bare before now and he didn't have those scars. I can save him right now if I gather enough courage to step forward and expose myself before everyone whose respect I've ever craved...

“Forgive me, prince Loki, but when, exactly, did you say you inflicted those marks upon yourself through magical means? I'm not sure I caught the date.” My voice trembles as it cuts across the silence and I feel faint with pure dread as the king's gaze lifts from the floor and focuses solely on me. There is a frown on Odin's brow as he studies me with the sort of puzzled thoughtfulness that makes me shake like a leaf.

“Why should that matter to you, Fandral the Dashing?” The Allfather's question brings every eye towards me and I swallow down my nerves. Thor takes a few steps towards me and only his father's fingertips clamping firmly around his wide wrist at the last possible second keep my dear friend from reaching my side, granting me a moment to think very carefully about what I'm about to do. I've now interrupted a trial in progress with no apparent reason to justify it. I have dared to request further clarification from the accused himself on a point the king never cared to challenge. I had not been granted leave to speak up, yet I've done so now and there is nothing that has ever prepared me to stand here, before the entire court of Asgard, and answer a question about a topic that is so very dear to my heart. So very, very, private.

“We haven't set foot in Muspelheim in at least five hundred years. Our young prince would have caused that terrible damage to his back right around that time, if he set out to learn that advanced magic immediately after our return, as he, himself, has explained.”

“That is true... Where are you going with this, Fandral? What do you remember that I don't?” Thor's voice reaches me as if through a fog, soothing my agitated senses and calming the sickening dread that is settling in the pit of my stomach as I imagine what my friends are going to say upon hearing the confession I'm now determined to make. Argr... I have never been called an Argr before in my entire life. Never even considered the label applies to me too, despite the fact that my appetite for sex with both men and women is widely known and accepted. I'm too valuable a soldier and so dangerous a rival that no one would ever dare to call _me_ a coward. Or a man-lover. Or too feminine at all.

My prowess with the sword has assured me a high place among the most revered warriors of the realm. I am one of the Warriors Three. The crown prince's friend and adviser. I am Golden. Strong. Charming. I am everything my love will never be and yet I have never been truly... worthy... of him until this second. I do not deserve his heart if I can not bear the burden of accepting my desires as they are. Loki does not deserve to be loved only among shadows. He doesn't deserve to remain unacknowledged, either. He is no weakness, shame or nightmare. On the contrary: he is the most beautiful being in all of Asgard. He's sharp angles and pale skin. Ebony colored hair and eyes like a rain-washed forest. He is wit and wisdom. He is trickery, loyalty, elegance and danger. He is the gray path through the light and he is my Silvertongue. My love. My best friend's brother. My delicate, sorcerer Prince...

“I laid with Loki Odinson three hundred years ago. I saw him quite bare at the time and I swear by the Norns themselves that he didn't have a mark marring his body. He was pale ivory perfection all the way from neck to toes. I attest this upon my honor, Allfather, and I respectfully request my testimony to be taken into consideration in the judgment of the second prince of Asgard.”

Loki looks right at me then and his eyes are both hurt and utterly bewildered. He looks frantic, puzzled, confused. Shocked beyond words and dismayed by my actions. Actions he hadn't been counting on. Actions he never predicted. He stands helplessly there, mouth slightly open in a vulnerable little 'oh' that betrays sheer disbelief and I can't help but wonder how many men has he laid with after me. How many men have failed to come to his rescue in this day when he needs their support the most. How many are there who are willing to let him walk to his death in order to protect their good name, their status. I have dared to defile a prince of Asgard, that is true, but I also care enough for him to let that very fact be the shield that will keep him both alive and out of prison.

“Is there any chance at all that what you saw was an illusion, Fandral the Dashing? Could your lover's flawless appearance at the time had been a product of magically engineered deceit?” The king's question is sharp toned, carefully worded, a masterpiece of law-speak that probably only Loki himself could match. There are a million little nuances held within it and I'm pretty sure it is skirting plenty of pitfalls in order to guide me down one of the few paths that will lead to his son's freedom.

“Illusions have no actual depth, no substance beyond their visual appearance. I saw Loki's entire body bare, but I also touched it, smelt it, tasted it...” The visible stiffening of Odin's shoulders makes me bite my bottom lip and think twice about the wisdom of giving a more detailed answer, but it isn't until I spot Thor's thunderous expression and the threatening way with which his fingers are beginning to curl around _Mjölnir_ that I force myself to halt my nervous babbling and hastily wrap up my response: “There is no doubt in my mind that his flawless appearance then was as real as the damaged one we see now.”

His mother laughs delightedly and his father's blue eye glints with obvious satisfaction. Thor hovers between the desire to grab hold of his brother and the instinct to come over to me with the intention to either hug me or throttle me for having had the gall to lay my way-too experienced fingertips upon the ivory skin of his adored sibling.

Loki shrinks as Gungnir connects forcibly with the floor, announcing his father's arrival at a decision he's not been given the chance to interfere with. He directs a filthy, hate-filled look in my direction, but my heart is pounding with the knowledge that I've just saved his life and there is nothing in the universe that can get me down right now.

“It is fact then, that my child: Loki Odinson, second Prince of Asgard, has been greatly harmed by the Chitauri race. His actions against the realm of Midgard weren't his own. He was being coerced by his captors and those captors remain his sole enemies no longer. An enemy of my son is an enemy of Asgard, and all enemies of Asgard must face death at the hands of its great warriors. I now declare the Golden Realm officially at war with these ruthless, murderous beasts. They shall be brought to justice for what they have done to our young Prince. Their realm shall be razed to the ground and their leader made to suffer untold torment. Their warriors will weep for our mercy and even then they shall receive nothing but pain in the name of the one we all call Loki!”

Gungnir bashes the floor once again and a wave of golden magic sweeps the entire room. Threads of it enfold Loki's body like a veil or a tunic, like a soft and warm blanket that lifts him gently in the air and starts to unlock the manacles that are keeping him chained one by one. Reinforced iron links fall to the floor with loud clanks as they open and slide off his limbs like dirty ribbons. It is not until he's finally set free that we all bear witness to the moment when his magic breaks loose from the bindings that suppressed it and attempts to reassert itself. The green aura that enfolds him doesn't look anything like the strong emerald gleam we all remember. It's a thin and fragile wisp of mossy brown that looks heartbreakingly weak and almost dead to the untrained eye, further proof to those who still doubt it that he wouldn't have been able to fight his way through any battle. He couldn't have teleported himself away, either. He probably wouldn't have managed to perform more than a few low-key illusions and even that would have cost him a level of energy he probably doesn't have.

Loki sways dangerously on his feet as soon as his father's golden power deposits him back on the ground, finally showing the first signs of magical draining now that his core has been completely separated from the powerful magic of the chains. He takes a single rattling breath and attempts to stand upright only to collapse were he stands with such suddenness that he would have hit the floor had it not been for the speed of Odin's reaction. His father's arms close around him firmly, gathering him up carefully, bridal style, and cradling him against the richly decorated, gold-plated chest that hasn't held him in a thousand years. His brother hovers anxiously beside the king and his mother runs towards him in the next instant, placing a shaking hand upon a forehead that even I can see has started to sweat profusely from where I am standing.

The room erupts in a frenzy of gasps and whispers as we all stand there and watch the proud Trickster of Asgard hang like a defeated scrap from his father's arms. Odin looks so sharply at the crowd that he manages to silence it without barking out a single command. His blue eye is brimming with rage and there's a set to his jaw that spells out perdition for whoever dares to cross him in this mood.  
“This court's business has concluded for the day. All citizens are advised to return home and spread around the word of my son's innocence. All warriors will report back here tomorrow for there is now an enemy to hunt and a prince of this realm to avenge. The healers among you will report to the healing wing at once, for my child's life is at stake and must be saved. And you, Fandral the Dashing, you, and you alone, shall accompany this family and sit right beside us as we guard Loki's sickbed. You will answer all my questions with the truth and, upon my satisfaction with your replies, shall be charged with the task of remaining by my son's side at all times. You will guard Loki in his hour of need. Protect him with your sword while he's at his weakest, for you have saved his life when I, myself, could not, and I fear we may need your help to save him from himself many more times before he's fully recovered.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2.**

 

Despite the healers' best efforts Loki does not wake on the day of his trial. He does not wake the next day, the one after that, or even the next one. He remains 'stable' but otherwise unresponsive, and the lack of either improvement or deterioration is slowly, but certainly, throwing the entire realm into chaos.

The king is constantly enraged, barking at his cowering aides, and snarling at his high commanders to make themselves useful and find as much information as possible about his son's tormentors without alerting them to the seriousness of Asgard's intentions against them.

Scores of soldiers have been subtly re-called from their current far off posts over the last five days, and the palace is abuzz with a million mighty warriors literally chomping at the bit to be let out into the field once and for all. The council's words of caution have fallen into deaf ears and, with every sunset that arrives without bringing with it news of Loki's longed for recovery, Odin's determination to obliterate the entire Chitauri race off the face of the universe grows like a visible cancer meant to consume all of us.

Frigga's attempts -and failure- to untangle the ruined threads she insists belong to Loki have been viewed as a bad omen for his recovery, and her beautiful blue eyes dim just a little bit more every time her fingers pick up her loom with the intention of weaving some sort of image featuring her child, only to produce something else entirely.

“Why can't I bring him forth when he's right here, beside me?  What is happening to him?  Why isn't he waking?” Her increasingly desperate questions echo everyone's thoughts on the matter but there are no answers to be had. The healers are stumped. Odin can't find a solution, either, and the brightest minds of Asgard have been woefully unable to shed any light on the matter, despite their best efforts.

It's the eve of my sorcerer prince's eighth day back home when his brother finally snaps at the dinner table. He suddenly growls in rage and throws his still full tankard of ale against the gleaming wall beside the high table, making the entire hall jump with shocked dismay at the kind of loss of control that only ever ends in the foulest of storms, and the irreversible loss of hundreds, if not thousands, of painstakingly sowed crops.

My heart aches for the misery that haunts my best friend's eyes, but I have no reserves of sympathy for anyone right now. I'm barely holding onto my own dignity as it is. I can't afford to lose my head to sorrow when Loki isn't here to map our way out, and no one else among us has a single hope of matching him, bar Hogun and myself. I will not lose myself to the rage of the berserker if there is a single chance that my doing so will hinder my already limited ability to devise a way to bring Loki back.

In the wake of my failure to raise to the task of calming the hotheaded heir to the throne, Sif steps into the breach, her hand settles ever so gently over Thor's arm and nobody dares to even breathe when her understanding, but chiding plea for him to calm down reminds us all so much of the one whose job has always been to stay his brother's hand in moments just like this that we can't help the flinch that betrays our thoughts aloud.

Odin's grip on Gungnir tightens, and I can only thank the Norns that the queen has remained behind, guarding Loki's bedside while we all dine, for he would have so despised seeing his mother's wretchedness raise in her breast like it is raising in our hearts right now.

“'There must be something we can do!” Thor explodes into the unbearable silence, attempting to force the rest of us into the kind of action he doesn't want to see we would have already taken, if only we knew what it was.

“Loki will not heal on our will alone, my friend.” Hogun's words are wise, but ultimately useless, and therefore are dismissed out of hand without even warranting an answer.

“If magic is what he needs then there must be a way to force some into his body, Father. We already know the manacles can take it away, and if those monstrous beasts found the means to drain it out of him, then it follows that there must also be a way push it back in.”

Odin's lips tighten into the same grim line they've been sporting since it was discovered that Iddun's apples can't find enough magic inside Loki to restore him to his former levels of power. His body has recovered to the point that all physical signs of the torture he endured remain nothing but a memory that haunts those of us who were present in the healing room when the extent of his injuries was revealed by the examination scans. But his mind is lost to a coma he's unable to overcome while his magic remains a fragile, dying wisp inside of him.

“Loki's magic does not follow the same patterns as the other sorcerers of Asgard. We have tried every avenue known to us already, Thor. Your brother's power is so... unique... that we can not understand it and the fact that we never had the foresight to study it before now has left us without both: knowledge and options. I will not consent to having what's left of Loki's dying magic tampered with. That may kill him for good. Or cost him what he holds most dear. You know as well as I do that he'll never forgive us if he recovers to learn that we've taken his power from him, no matter how accidentally it was done.”

“I don't want to take his power. I just want him to wake up!”

“Do not imagine for a second that I don't want the same thing, child. But there are times when our desires count for nothing, and the only thing we can do is stay strong for long enough to be of use when our chance to strike gold finally arrives. Loki may not be as safe and sound as we wish right now, but he's still safer than he was. He is right here, with us, and he's not worsening. Let's not make hasty choices on his behalf while he's in our care, for he will not willingly give us another chance to prove our worth to him. We must strive to do the best we can. The absolute best, Thor.”

Thor's rage reaches its pinnacle at that point and the entire palace shakes with the loud boom of thunder that threatens to split the suddenly rain-laden sky in half. “Is this our absolute best then, father? Because if it doesn't look like much to me then it certainly won't impress Loki!”

Horror spreads through the high table as we all hold our breaths, waiting for either the king to vanish his heir anew or Ragnarok itself to start unraveling. I sit back, widened blue eyes staring at my dearest friend while my heart pounds in my chest, and there is something so very akin to sorrow crawling down my gut that I'm convinced I'll shatter if I so much as take another breath. Loki would have loved to see this. He'd have smirked like a circus loon at the spectacle before him, feeling nothing short of chuffed by the idea that he's finally driven a wedge between Thor and their father. Destroying in one single second of thoughtless frustration Thor's never-ending willingness to walk down the same path as his stern progenitor.

Whatever thoughts cross both their minds as we remain pinned to our seats, gaping at them like witless cattle at the sight of the slaughter house, their exchange is, thankfully, cut short by a young page who runs into the hall with the news that Frigga has finally made a breakthrough. She's managed to weave an image of Loki onto one of her tapestries, but the scene is so small, her grasp on his form so flimsy, that she dares not risk disclosing its content. She's sent a single thing to her husband instead, a clue of sorts. A hint that is supposed to aid us in figuring out what to do next.

Odin's relief at the news doesn't wane when the page comes forwards but refuses to expose the item that lies between his tightly clasped hands with a stammered explanation. “The queen wished you to know that she's certain you'll appreciate being told to let no eyes but your own rest upon what I carry, your Majesty.”

Thor bristles at the idea of leaving. His huge body lurches sideways, massive chest arching over the empty space that separates his chair from his father's to stare right into his sire's lone blue eye with obvious challenge. “He. Is. _My_. _Brother_!” He hisses softly enough for the words to remain trapped at the high table, but I still frown with unease at the strange undercurrents I sense in that simple statement. There's a strange inflection, an unnecessary possessiveness to the familiar claim of brotherhood that bothers me as much as it rattles his father, for the king's hand closes into a fist and bangs the table with a mighty clang that makes every plate and tankard upon it rattle like small change in a pouch.

“He is _my_ _son_ , too, Thor. Do not dare imply I would willingly harm him, for I'd rather lose my remaining eye than fail your brother again.”

Something frighteningly like mistrust flashes between the two of them as their gazes battle one another in the brief silence that follows. I sit very still and watch them in puzzled silence, conscious of the fact that I'd have happily sacrificed my best sword without a single regret just to earn the chance to understand what in the name of the Norns is happening here. Thor blinks before I gather enough courage to request an explanation and a single rough command escapes his lips, meant for each and every occupant of both the hall and the high table:  “You may leave the room at once. I'm certain the kitchens will be happy enough to accommodate those of you who are mid-meal with whatever nourishment pleases you.”

The loud screeching of chairs that follows masks the king's next words from me as I turn my attention to both Sif and the other two thirds of the fabled Warriors Three with the intention of following them out of the hall. It is not until I've come to a full standing position, and I'm preparing to bow playfully before Sif in mocking invitation for the lady among us to precede me, that Odin's beringed hand curls around my wrist, pinning me to the spot not with the strength of the contact but with the shock of it. “You will remain, Fandral the Dashing."

“Father...”

“He saved your brother at great cost to himself. I wish I knew how many noble warriors prized their sterling reputations higher than my youngest child's life, but I do not. I know only of this man's sacrifice and he _will_ be honored for it with full disclosure. It takes more than respect for a past lover to put one's life on the line like that, son. Fandral stays. He may yet prove to be Loki's salvation. I hope your brother has grown wise enough to recognize love when he sees it, even if he doesn't care for ours at this point.”

My wrist jerks inside the loose circle of the Allfather's fingers, but he doesn't let me go until the last straggler has abandoned the room, leaving just the three of us with the young page. My cheeks burn a fiery crimson with the shame of the exposed but I dare not utter a word either in acceptance or denial of the king's perceptive words. Thor throws me a look that hovers between reluctant hope and heavy suspicion, and I realize in this instant that he'll only ever support me if I manage to prove to him that I've got no intention of breaking his brother's heart. As if I could. As if Loki would ever consent to give me that sort of power.

The young messenger fidgets on his knees, drawing our combined attention back towards him. The king motions for him to stand up and come around the table, all the closer for us to see whatever it is that hides between his palms. I do not know what I was expecting to see, but it certainly isn't the single thread of bright blue silk that meets my eyes. I can't hold my gasp of utter puzzlement, just as my companions can't contain their own anguished groans. The three of us look at each other for a long, interminable, moment in which my pounding heart reaches the worrying conclusion that both my king and his heir know exactly what this flimsy-looking string is supposed to mean. There is something in their eyes that speaks of untold sorrow and I pray with all the faith I can lay claim to for that sorrow to have, somehow, spared my sorcerer prince.

Thor's trembling hand reaches out to pluck the blue thread from the page's sweaty fingers, and the boy is dismissed with strict instructions never to reveal the nature of the message he just delivered. The door bangs shut with a heavy clang behind the child, and I'm uncomfortably aware that I remain the only man who is still clueless about what, exactly, has transpired. My eyes are drawn, as if of their own volition, towards that delicate filament of the brightest blue I've ever seen, and I realize that this meager strand is, somehow, meant to _be_ Loki. This is a Loki whose fate has managed to shed his former colors of green and gold and black. A Loki who has changed in ways I can't yet comprehend, but that frightens those who love him the most. “What does this mean?” I whisper, suddenly afraid of the answer, but unable to leave the question unspoken.

Odin must have aged three centuries in the last second alone, but his lone eye is fixed on Frigga's message with the kind of grim determination that usually precedes Trouble with a capital T. “It means we part for Jotunheim as soon as our horses are saddled.” He explains curtly and my pounding heart falls all the way to the gleaming floor, shattering with sheer terror upon contact.

 

**TBC**

 


	3. Chapter 3

Jotunheim has greatly changed since the last time I set foot on it, and the difference between my nightmarish recollection of the wind-ravaged wasteland of my memories and the peaceful beauty of the frozen glacier where the power of the Tesseract -which has been magically shrunk and is now encased within the metalwork that adorns the base of Gungnir's sharpest tip-  has set us down both alarms me and leaves me wondering what has happened to this realm since that thrice accursed incursion.

Despite the fact that there's no soul in sight, and that we appear to have arrived in some sort of deserted little valley far away from any sign of proper civilization, there is no doubt in my mind that something incomprehensible has happened here. Something... benign. Something that has as little in common with a brutal and unexpected attack meant to exterminate an entire race as a tender kiss has to the cruel lash of a whip.

Thor's blue eyes widen as he takes the scene in, clearly struggling to reconcile the very same memories that haunt me to the icy beauty that surrounds us.  “Is there any chance that the Tesseract has guided us to the frozen deserts on the west side of Vanaheim, father?  My mind can't associate this landscape with the Jotunheim I remember.”

The king's lone eye surveys the valley with the same kind of terrifying focus that often brings his entire court to complete and utter silence without his explicit say so. A muscle twitches on his jaw as his lips press tightly together before he finally shrugs away whatever has displeased him with a contemptuous arrogance that both appalls me as a warrior and amazes me as a man. “The Tesseract has lead as true. There are signs of frost giants everywhere I look. It wouldn't surprise me in the slightest if we were being watched as we speak. We may have come unannounced but our arrival can hardly have gone undetected by whatever passes for security detail around here.”

That simple statement leaves both, Thor and I, shuddering with equal amounts of unease. Our gazes rake the pristine blanket of snow that covers everything in sight with newborn wariness, attempting to catch those clear signs of frost giant presence that the king speaks about, without success. My gloved fingertips curl around the hilt of my sword almost unconsciously, and it isn't until the Allfather's displeased sigh makes us both jump where we stand that we finally manage to tear our wary eyes from the surrounding landscape in order to look questioningly at our inexplicably calm leader. “You will both remove your hands from the handle of your weapons and sit upon those boulders with me. We may be being watched by skilled warriors of a race we do not trust, but we have come here in peace.”

My throat tightens in absolute rejection of such ridiculous course of action and my heart begins to pound with the knowledge that every instinct I posses is urging me to disobey my king's direct order before we are all slaughtered where we stand like a small pack of witless boars. Anxiety digs it's merciless claws inside my gut and cold sweat begins to bead at the top of my spine, commencing it's slow and nerve-wracking descent down my stiffening back as my shocked gaze tangles with Thor's, begging him to say to his father what his lofty station as the man's crowned heir will allow him to say without fearing a future spent in Asgard's hellish dungeons for daring to be sincere.

“Those boulders are low on the ground and utterly unprotected from a rearward attack. Abandoning our challenging postures and back-to-back shielding stand in order to sit ourselves in the most vulnerable position we can find like a brainless trio of exhausted, old men would only cripple us by making us look weak, and giving all the advantage to our enemies.”

Odin's lips compress even further, mouth becoming thinner and thinner until it ends up resembling a white line that betrays utmost displeasure. His face is pale with anger and his lone blue eye fairly blazes with the fire of his rage, but he takes a single deep breath and studies his firstborn with the kind of somberness I'm most used to see him direct at Loki before pointing out curtly: “We have come here in peace, child. Better swallow our pride now, and allow those who are observing us to believe we are nothing but a brainless trio of exhausted old men, than lose the chance to speak with whoever is in charge, as is our intention. Pointless bloodshed may be relatively easy for us to achieve, but it won't answer our questions.”

“We won't get any answer whatsoever if they strike us down here, father. And they will at least try, for their last interaction with us ended with their king murdered in cold blood and their realm struck with the power of the Bifrost.”

“Loki's actions may have been ill-judged, but they weren't all that cold-blooded. We were at war at the time. A war your own thoughtless incursion into this realm started, Thor. Do not tell me you've forgotten that already.”

Whatever my dear friend may have been about to say to that is cut short by the distinctive whistle of a single ice-tipped arrow as it cuts trough the air, passing merely an inch to the left of the king's right ear in unmistakable warning. Thor whirls around, growling loudly into the empty vastness that surrounds us, but that's all the reaction his father allows him to show as he circles his wrist rather harshly in a move designed to hinder his instinctive reach towards Mjölnir.

“We. Have. Come. Here. In. Peace.” The king grits once again in his heir's ear, and I wish they'd picked another time to disagree on a point that could so very easily decide whether we live or die. Thor's frustrated roar shakes a few long icicles off their high perches, making them tumble around us with the kind of muted twinkle that would have easily masked the whistling of another arrow, had our enemies decided to let one lose at that particular moment.

My heart is in my throat as that thought lodges in my brain, and my eyes rake the deceptively empty landscape with the growing realization that we are easy marks for whoever has dared to warn us. I'm blind to their location and so is Thor. They could easily overpower us with their long range weapons before we get close enough for our own to be of use, and I'm hoping that the fact that we are still breathing is more proof of my king's wisdom than consequence of our enemies' desire to 'toy' with us before they strike.

Nothing happens for a long time after Thor's enraged roar dies down. We remain standing for a moment or two before the Allfather drags us both towards the unprotected boulders where he forces us to sit with nothing but a commanding gesture and a stern look that only a fool would have dared to ignore. Whoever is out there doesn't lose another arrow, but doesn't dare to approach us either, and I'm left to wonder if there's really more than one Frost Giant watching us or if my gut is churning with the fierceness of full battle for a single, and maybe even unskilled, archer.

 _'Loki would have known the answer to that question.'_ I think in a moment of unguarded wistfulness, and the fact that I know for a fact that my sorcerer prince would have been able to sense whoever is out there long before they attacked us leaves me resenting his absence all the more. He'd have mapped our enemies' positions, and the weapons they carry, within the first two seconds of arriving, and we wouldn't have been left here blind and wondering whether it's safer to risk acting now or wait. Loki would have simply _known_. He'd have decided on a course of action, and we would have followed it through without any second-guessing whatsoever because Loki never failed to guide us true through every possible peril with the kind of awe-inspiring self-confidence that often led us right to victory, regardless of the fact that we were always distressingly blind to the importance of the role he played in our little escapades, and only started to realize how directly our success rate had been linked to his presence after his fall into the abyss had left our merry band thoroughly crippled.

“We're as useless as blind dragons without Loki. Our might is chained by our inability to perceive what his senses would have so easily picked up, if only he were here.” Thor whispers suddenly, echoing my own thoughts with such remarkable accuracy that I turn to look at him.

The king is sitting between us, as stern and stoic as a sculpture in a temple, but his knuckles have turned snow-white with sudden tension and his lone eye shines unhappily. “I have never had the pleasure of fighting alongside your brother, Thor. Recent times have been too peaceful to declare a full out war, and I never took enough interest in your youthful escapades to accompany you, as I should have. I've witnessed his prowess in the field of battle strategy, of course, but never saw him in action. Never cared to see him, either, despite my awareness that he would have greatly enjoyed being given the chance to show off his skills. I was too proud of his success in the field of scheming to risk facing disappointment when it came to his physical strength. I thought him weaker than every other warrior and couldn't make myself accept that truth. I was ashamed of his... shortcomings. Yet he never lost a skirmish before Midgard, and he fought in all of them.”

His father's words haunt me as they pierce my every defense, for I have always considered my love weaker than myself or Thor or anybody else, really. Everyone dismissed his skills as a true warrior centuries ago, and none had the sense of keeping that opinion quiet when it mattered. We often called him a coward, an argr, a trickster to his face, blatantly dismissing his every effort and contribution in our campaigns. We used his reliance on magic to deny him a share of the glory we wouldn't have earned without him, and ended up driving him away. Lost him to whatever madness made him choose the horrors of the abyss over us, not through his own weakness, but through our own unforgivable foolishness.

I sit stiffly on my boulder and can't help but ache for the past I can not change. For the brother-in-arms I so thoroughly failed, and the sorcerer prince whose unique skills I dared to dismiss even though I've always benefited from the victories they earned us. I was not the only one who did that, of course, but I was the only one bold enough to claim to love him with a depth that should have never have allowed me to fake such thoroughly convincing scorn towards his person. Unworthy... How many times did I dare to call him such a thing when it was never him, but I, who should have worn the title emblazoned like a brand across my forehead?  How can I think my emotions worthy of Loki when they've always failed to choose him?  How can I look at his father and brother right now, and claim to love him more than my own soul when I've never stood up for him or even by him?  When I've never dared to raise my sword in his defense or my voice in recognition of the fact that I, Fandral the Dashing, I'm proud of the man he is?

An hour passes in utter silence as we sit and ponder equally gloomy thoughts. I'd bet we all miss him with similar fierceness and are equally afraid of failing him once again, now that the Norns have given us this blessed second chance. Time crawls by excruciatingly slowly until the quality of the light begins to change, and not even the thickness of our best winter coats can stop the frigid cold from finally getting to us. Sunset approaches and, with it, dangerously cold temperatures draw ever nearer. My self-preservation finally kicks the self-pity that burdens me so in the teeth as it blazes suddenly forth, reminding me of all the things we should have done already, but haven't. We've failed to hunt for nourishment or seek shelter in the nearby caves. We've failed to gather whatever wood is there to be found in this godforsaken valley. Failed to scout the landscape for forgotten animal tracks that would have given us crucial insight into what sort of beasts roam the area in the dark. “Do you think they will let us die here, victims of whatever crawls around under the light of their moons?” I finally ask my companions, wondering if I should rise and explore our immediate surroundings, attempt to gather -at the eleventh hour- the branches we've failed to collect. For something is always better than nothing, and late is still acceptable enough a time to start acting, as long as there is breath and life within one's body.

“They will not. They wish to see us squirm, that's all. I am a king and my heir is right beside me. Jotunheim can not afford both the diplomatic and no-so-diplomatic repercussions it'll have to face for letting us perish here through no fault of our own.”

“They could always claim their guards detected our presence too late to assist us.” Thor points out gloomily, making his father laugh mirthlessly.

“That would mean they have a way to shield their actions from Heimdall and, so far, there is only one creature in the Nine Realms able to do that.”

“All roads lead to Loki, don't they?” I whisper under my breath unhappily, heedless of both the company I'm keeping and the common sense that urges me to remain as close mouthed as possible about my feelings. The king eyes me thoughtfully, and I wonder what he seeks when he does so. There is something in his expression that I have never seen there before. A quiet hope. Unending worry. A sorrow that probably matches my own, even though its nature must be as different from mine as the sun is from the moons.  
  
“They must, now, for he is the reason we're here. Tell me, young Fandral, regardless of what has happened between the two of you in the past, would you willingly walk down a road that won't lead you to my son?”

My heart shrinks inside my chest as that simple, but oh-so-very-hard, question weaves itself around my senses. Every last drop of my pounding blood knows the answer instinctively, but the truth in this case hasn't been enough, or even fair to Loki, for a very long time. I can not in good conscience lay now claim to a future togetherness I once so thoroughly rejected. I can't use his father's willingness to repay my 'courage' during his trial to shackle my prince against his will. Or at all. I squandered that right of my own free will, almost as soon as Loki gifted it to me. “I can't walk down a road that's been barred to me for centuries, and I dare not challenge the reasons why Loki decided to settle for complete estrangement between us. I forsook the right to do so freely. I would not make the same choice now, but I doubt the Norns would care.”

“Why did you let my son go, if you love him so?  Why didn't you think him... enough?”

The cold air freezes in my lungs and my throat closes so tightly that, for a panicked second, I wonder if it is indeed possible for a god to perish of heartbreak. I've been questioned many times before by beasts ten times more dangerous that my king will ever be, but then this is not a beast at all, but a man I deeply admire. A warrior king whose courage in battle is as legendary as his wisdom in peace. I, like many men in Asgard, have spent my entire life attempting to emulate the Allfather. Losing his regard would be a crippling blow to my pride but I know not the right words to answer his query without reminding him, once again, of my lowly roots, and lying to him is unthinkable. “Loki was always enough. I'm the one who wasn't.”

“What nonsense do you speak, my friend?  You're one of the finest warriors in the realm. You must have brought home ten kingdoms worth of loot in the last five centuries alone!  Anyone at court would have been crazy to scorn your hand, if offered.”

Thor's clear outrage on my behalf soothes some of the pride that my constant awareness of my less than impressive origins so often wounds. I'm aware that my friend's assertion would have proven to be correct had my heart been wise enough to choose anyone in Asgard but the man it settled for: a king's child. A mighty sorcerer. One of the most beautiful and intelligent creatures to ever walk under Yggdrasil's shade. “I'm the son of a peddler. I learned the charm I'm so famous for at the knee of a cheat who wandered the realm aimlessly, surviving on barely legal scams and the favor he often courted with his good looks. I have no title to my name. No land to call my own. No noble blood at all. I am a man of the sword. Honorable enough for plenty of people but not so much for a prince of Asgard. I know my place, Thor. I have always known my place. And it's never been anywhere near Loki's hand or heart.”

“Did my son cast you away with such words or did your own head whisper them treacherously in your ear while he waited for a sign of your commitment?  Despite his station in life Loki has never shown much interest in his equals. I find it hard to believe that he would have dismissed you so, if he cared enough to bed you and, if what you claimed the last time we spoke about this is true and you were indeed his first lover, then it's obvious that Loki clung to his virginity like a miser clings to gold. He gave it to you without any strings attached. That action alone, coming from such cautious, secretive soul, tell the kind of story that should have never ended in estrangement.”

My breath hitches as his father's words hit me with the power of all truths that are unveiled way too late. I have never, in all these years, dared to even imagine he could have come to me out of affection rather than a healthy dose of curiosity, and the vague desire to be deflowered by a so called 'expert'. Now the idea that he may, just may, have once dreamed of a life spent beside me, as I have so often done myself, is simply too unbearable a thought to contemplate, and I choke out a barely audible: “Then I'm twice the fool, am I not?  And I certainly don't deserve a single shred of the Norns' rare enough mercy. Loki has no reason to forgive me, and I have no right to demand a second chance after failing so spectacularly to choose him.”

Night is falling around us, helping me cloak my openly sorrowful expression among shadows. My blunt words hurt me beyond reason as I release them out into the ether, letting them bring my deepest shame to life as I sit there and wonder what my life would have been like, if I only had more courage when it mattered the most.

“You chose him spectacularly enough during his trial, child. You, literally, saved his life. If that doesn't earn you Loki's willingness to listen then I doubt anything can.”

“I didn't _choose_ him then. I finally owned up to a truth I should have never kept hidden. Looking at it from that unflattering perspective one can hardly expect your son to be even marginally impressed by my actions.”

Odin laughed with amusement and shook his head from left to right, smiling quietly to himself for a brief second. “I see you're as stubborn as Loki himself is, and too full of pride for your own good. You won't pursue him now because your honor won't let you, isn't that what you're trying to say?  You failed to choose him when you first bedded him and now believe yourself too unworthy to request a second chance.”

“It's not a matter of pride but of trust, your Majesty. How can I expect Loki to ever believe my claims of love when I leaped from his bed to that of a pair of wenches without so much as an outward twitch of conscience?  Such actions, and the words that followed them, can neither be undone nor forgotten, and their memory will forever taint every future interaction between us. The path that would have lead me to Loki is no longer open to me. I would happily sacrifice many things for a chance to change that truth, but nobody is handed the opportunity to truly choose or reject the same person twice in a single lifetime, so-”

“What if I were to tell you that you could indeed do so?  What if I said that Loki is no child of my loins but the son my heart chose a long time ago?  What if I were to confess that your lover isn't even Aesir?  That I concealed his true appearance with magic, and he only ever found out about his heritage by accident, shortly before his fall?  What if I dared to say that he's truly a-”

“Loki wouldn't want his secret thus exposed, father. He was distressed enough when he found out that I've been told. I know not how he would react to the reality of having his true nature exposed to the eyes of a former lover. A lover he no longer trusts, no less.”

Odin's lips thin with clear displeasure at Thor's challenging interruption. His blue eye closes in the familiar bid for patience that I've witnessed plenty of times cloud his strong features in his interactions with his youngest child, but have never, ever, seen cross his face in his dealings with his firstborn. “Loki's true nature is the sword he'll use against us as soon as he wakes, Thor. You heard his words at his trial: he never once called you brother. He dared to address me as the Allfather.”

“I'd just brought him back in chains. He was railing against us. Showing logical amounts of disbelief towards our apparent desire to protect him. Loki is suspicious by nature, father, but he'll have no other option but to trust our intentions when he wakes to find himself completely free, and the entire realm on the brink of war for the purpose of avenging him.”

“If you genuinely believe such thing then your lack of insight into the inner workings of your brother's soul should shame you.”

“Father-”

“Loki will wield his true nature like a weapon against us. He'll use it to keep us at bay, allowing it to become both shield and wall between us. He'll twist it into the Norns only know what nightmarish half-truths to isolate himself further, and reject us on the grounds that he's never been one of us. If there is a chance for Fandral here to see that, past the horror of blue skin and deep red eyes that your brother so despises, lies the same heart he claims to adore, then we may have one more voice to help us fight against such nonsense.”

Something clicks inside my mind as those words render me silent, shedding bright light where up until now there had been nothing but shadows, and my breath halts inside my lungs as my heart freezes with one single, awful, realization: “Blue... Loki's new thread is blue.”

My companions turn sharply towards me, a unique trio of blue eyes that has never before now held much in common stares right at me with identically guarded expressions as my lips struggle to shape the unbelievable truth my head is reeling with: “There is only one creature of blue skin and deep red eyes that my sorcerer despises: A giant. He's a Frost Giant.”

“Mind your words in this instant, Fandral the Dashing. Mind your thoughts and your actions. Mind your every emotion, for this may be the only chance you'll ever have of righting your past wrongs when it comes to _my_ _son_.”

The king's warning reaches me as if through a thick veil of both shock and utter disbelief. My eyes close as the bitter taste of bile rushes up the back of my throat, making me feel sick to the depth and breadth of my being, and all I'm able to think about in this instant is the memory of Loki's childish face so long ago, looking as pale and drawn as my own must look right now, after having woken from a nightmare in which a rogue group of frost giants had, somehow, managed to capture him. “His greatest fear... He's turned out to _be_ his greatest fear. Why?  Why did you teach him to dread his own race, if you knew what he was?  I could never understand why you insisted on telling him all those stories about the raiders of Jotunheim when you knew they frightened him so. He never listened to us when we tried to tell him there were other, nicer, stories. He dismissed our words as mere comfort.”

The Allfather must have aged five whole centuries in the last minute alone. His lone eye looks dull with bottomless guilt, but his mouth is a thin line that betrays neither malice nor the pride of a man who acted wrongly just because he could. He looks both fierce and determined to earn his own chance to right his many wrongs. “I didn't have any other option. I knew the magic I used to conceal his true heritage would unravel as soon as he came in contact with a member of his own race. Put yourself in my shoes for just a second: I stole a child in the midst of war. I didn't do it out of greed, or pettiness, or even vengeance. I did it because something in that babe touched me profoundly. I have loved Loki like my own flesh and blood since the first instant I held him, and I didn't want him to ever discover the truth. I hoped that making him fear his own would protect him, keep him away from the Frost Giants forever. I never imagined he'd have enough courage to approach them, or to follow Thor into battle against them. I never imagined my own strength would fail me at the worst possible second, or that the fear I so carefully fostered throughout his entire life would end up making his accidental discovery all the more traumatic.”

“He must have gone to the vault-room seeking the casket and you had no other option but to confront him there. That's why you fell into the Odinsleep in such inconvenient location.” I whisper quietly, racing mind finally bringing together the scattered pieces of a puzzle that has eluded me for so long: Loki's odd reaction to Thor's banishment. His father's sudden collapse. His uncharacteristic decision to attack Jotunheim when he's spent all his life trying to convince his brother to use the power of diplomacy over brute force to solve conflict.

“Yes.” The king confirms equally quietly, raking my features with the kind of intensity that only rattles me further, and I know not what I would have said or done, if the Jotuns hadn't chosen that very second to finally make their move. One instant we were all alone in the darkening valley and the next we were being blinded by the light of a dozen small fires, bursting to life as one ice arrow after another suddenly landed on what we had, so far, assumed to be icicle formations on the ground, but turned out to be some sort of flammable bushes.

Thor and I try to rise as soon as we realize what's happening, but the king wraps strong hands around our wrists, holding us in place. “Save your hotheaded reactions to fired weapons for another day. They are just lighting up the area in preparation for a formal approach. We can't afford to look threatening at this point. We have come here seeking aid.”

My fingers release the hilt of my sword as reluctantly as Thor releases Mjölnir's handle and we both twitch with barely restrained animosity when our wary gazes detect movement straight ahead. The sound of metal hitting metal accompanies the chilling sight of a dozen heavily armed Frost Giant guards approaching us head on, and cold sweat begins to bead at the base of my neck as soon as my eyes register the sheer size of them. The shortest must be at least 20 feet tall, and they are all, save two, as corpulent as Thor.

They come to a complete halt in arrow-tip formation, close enough to kick us all in the teeth, if they feel like doing so, but far enough to be well out of our weapons' limited range. I stare curiously at their undisputed leader as he/she/it studies us with the same sort of displeasure I'd have used to examine animal excrement, and it's not until the giant moves its head ever so slightly downwards and to the side that the achingly familiar gesture that I've seen my sorcerer prince use a million times before hits my still reeling mind with an even more unpleasant realization: this creature, who stands challengingly before us, is somehow related to Loki. I can see it now in both its proud stance and the willowy shape of its body when compared to its companions'. I can see it in the shape of its narrow face and thoughtful, cat-like eyes. I can see it in the color and texture of its long, ebony hair and the shockingly familiar curve of its thin lips as they twist upwards in the very same kind of scornful smirk Loki favors when confronting trapped enemies.

“Greetings, queen Farbauti, I haven't had the pleasure of basking in your company in many, many centuries.”

My king's polite address receives the most unladylike snort I've ever heard a queen exhale, and my gut grows heavy with dread as her blood-red gaze narrows further. “Odin, Allfather. His son, the mighty Thor, and... what's the name of the bed-hopper, Helblindi?” She asks of the giant who stands directly behind her, pointing in my direction with a sharp lift of her chin.

“He is known as Fandral, the Dashing, mother. He's one of the Warriors Three.”

“Dashing, eh?” She snorts again, raking my form from head to boots dismissively, before turning her not-so-amused gaze back on the king. “What have you come to steal from me this time armed with nothing but appalling boldness, a single, dwarf-forged hammer, and a pretty face, you, thief?  I hope your plan is better than it looks, for I ache to avenge my husband, and I will so enjoy removing the eye I left on your face the last time I encountered you.”

“Your husband died in the midst of battle. We were at war at the time, and he'd lead an attack that breached my court's walls. We defended ourselves with suitable force. His demise can not be avenged under the law of the Nine.”

She shrugs, clearly uninterested in either pleasantries or appeasement, and her fierce eyes flash with unyielding dislike even as she smiles with enough fake cordiality to make me shiver. “That would be beside the point, would it not?  For you have come here uninvited, clearly seeking something I'm not planning to give you, which means you'll attempt, once again, to steal whatever it is from me. It's unfortunate for you that you've come so lightly armed then, Allfather. Or have you forgotten that the last time you tried to rob me of my treasures you ended up leaving your eye, five hundred of your precious lieutenants, and half your army rotting on my fields?”

“My son is dying, Farbauti.”

Her head turns sharply towards Thor then, examining him from head to toes with the kind of narrowed stare that would have made me tremble in my boots, had it been directed my way. “He seems healthy enough to me.”

“My youngest son, Loki, is lying in his sickbed as we speak. Idunn's apples can't heal him, for he has the soul of a sorcerer, and his ailment is one that affects his magical core.”

“Loki... that's the trickster one. Isn't he, Helblindi?” she requests clarification from her own son once again, and my heart falls all the way down to the frozen ground when the giant she addressed answers her with:

“That's the one who talked our rogue guards into attempting to retrieve the casket during the blond brute's coronation. He is the one who unleashed the Bifrost's power upon us. The one who killed father.”

“Is he now?  Well. Well. Well... I'd say that is quite unfortunate for you then, Allfather, for it is well within my rights to refuse aiding the one who has harmed my family so deeply. Laufey's death may have been an act of war, but his passing has left me a grieving widow and, as such, I refuse to grant you any boon that may help my husband's slayer recover his own health. Seek. Your. Cure. Somewhere. Else, Asgardian. For you're not welcome here. None of your ilk is.”

“Loki is not of my ilk, but yours, Farbauti. I stole him long ago from a temple in this land. He was wrapped in a blanket that carried the royal crest. Someone laid him at the feet of the Casket of Ancient Winters on the eve of our last battle. ”

The queen freezes from head to toes, midway through the turning motion she'd already started. Her child's face looks as close to ashen as his blue features can possibly come as he glowers at us over her stiffening shoulder, and I can't help the motion of my own hand, coming to rest on the hilt of my sword in silent warning, when I see his huge arm lift. He uses it to pull his mother closer to him, though, tucking her slender frame into his own impressively built one in a gesture that brims with so much protectiveness that my throat dries with the realization that they all know exactly who the babe my king's words describe had been, and are conscious that their queen still loves him very deeply, even after all this time.

“You better have proof that what you're claiming is true, thief, for I shall slay you where you sit for daring to reopen in vain the wound of my brother's demise, if it turns out that you're toying with my mother's heart.” Helblindi's words are fierce, unyielding, and so very full of hatred that they should, by rights, have killed us with the poison they must carry, but my king remains untouched by the violence they promise, and nods in quiet reassurance. “I have proof.” He says and uses Gungnir to open a magic portal from where he extracts a single item. It's a small, baby-sized blanket, utterly white and looking as soft as Midgardian eiderdown.

Helblindi's threatening stance collapses as soon as his eyes settle over it, and his gasp of shocked anguish compels his mother to finally turn her tear-stained face in our direction. Blood-red eyes zero in on the blanket, widening with clear recognition even as she takes a couple of ground-shaking steps towards the Allfather. Huge blue fingers close around the pristine cloth, shaking with emotion as they do so, and her knees bend towards the frozen floor in the next second, bringing her face as close as it can possibly come to my king's own before she snarls upon it the only sentence her trembling lips seem able to produce: “Bring my firstborn to me, thief. Bring. My. Firstborn. To. Me!”

 

**TBC**

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4.**  

It's strange to sit here, in the middle of absolute nowhere, surrounded by a veritable wall of clearly agitated Frost Giants, and feel nothing but bone-deep numbness. My head spins in helpless little circles as I listen to the Allfather's increasingly frustrated refusal to bring Loki here, despite the queen's determined insistence that he must do so.

Their heated argument continues around me as I blink dazedly, staring at them all with the kind of intrigued curiosity I've never had the time to show in a Frost Giant's presence before because each and every one of my previous interactions with this race has been tainted by violence.

They are all as tall as mountains and bluer than the midgardian oceans. Their eyes are an uncomfortable shade of blood-red, framed by thick lashes that somehow manage to make them look fiercer than they are. They wear little and are armed to the teeth, but there is a grace about them that is quite breathtaking to find in such humongous creatures. The small ornaments they carry around their necks, together with the thin straps of richly colored leather that most of them wear coiled around their arms and calves, and the hundreds of small, colorful beads they have woven into their hair speak of a race who knows delicate craftsmanship, and delights in seeking beauty. Their voices are low and guttural, tone sharp with increasing anger as their frayed tempers begin to unravel in the face of my king's refusal to acquiescence to their demands.

Although my own eyes see them as harmless at the moment, I can't help but look at them through the lens I know Loki will use to judge them. These are the monsters of his childhood nightmares. The bloodthirsty raiders of the nine realms he used to fear so much. This is the enemy Thor has always promised to slay in his behalf. The very same foes we fought in so many imaginary battles as we were growing up, always trying to convince him that he had nothing to fear because we -and by default all of Asgard- could prevail over these beasts, keeping him safe and out of their reach forever. My heart pounds harder with the knowledge that we have now failed to deliver that early promise, one of the very first we ever made to him. We can not keep the Jotun away from Loki because we have no moral right to try, and they clearly want him. It is pretty obvious to me that they will not renounce him, if he lives. They will fight tooth and nail to earn a place in Loki's future, just as the Allfather and Thor, and even I, myself, are fighting, and not a single one of us, _none_ , holds enough moral high ground to stand in their way. At least not on principle.

This is the seemingly loving family my prince never knew he had. His mother, his real mother, and two younger brothers to boot. These creatures' carry the same blood that runs through Loki's veins. That is an undeniable fact that gets hammered deeper and deeper within my psyche the longer I'm exposed to their Queen's proud and graceful presence, for I can see traces of my beloved sorcerer in most of her gestures and posture. In the tone of her voice. In her uncompromising behavior and the sharp intellect behind her every argument and poisoned barb.

Loki may not look anything like either prince Helblindi or his younger sibling, Byleistr, who is standing right beside him, but he's indisputably a much shorter, male, version of their mother, and this simple truth has already turned him into something that has always terrified him. Something he'd never wanted to be. Something he may have been trying to murder when he chose the horror of the abyss over the forgiveness of Asgard all those many moons ago.

I'm in shock and I'm exhausted. But at least I'm already past afraid, bewildered, outraged and even furious. I have finally come to some sort of terms with something that Loki himself won't be able to accept quite so easily: there is plenty of blame to be handed out around here, but very little of it belongs to these creatures, if any. Whatever reason they had for placing a babe at the foot of their most sacred relic in the mist of an inter-realm battle, they hadn't done it with the intention of either murdering or losing the child forever. They had done it to protect it. I stare at the soft white blanked the queen's blue fingers are clutching tightly enough for her cobalt-colored knuckles to have turned as close to white as they possibly can, and don't know what else to feel except sorrow.

I feel sorrow for us all in equal measure. My heart aches for the Allfather, who is at fault in all this mess, but who is also clearly struggling against his instinct to lift Gungnir and whisk us all back home. He can't bring himself to do it, though, because we have already exhausted every other avenue, and this is our last recourse. Loki is dying, that's the plain and simple truth. Odin can not afford to halt all negotiations and walk away, leaving our demanding foes stranded here forever without any possible means of ever reaching the child he stole, but loves so deeply, that he's willing to stand here and face what must be his worst nightmare: an outraged mother growling resentfully in his face, threatening to claim his youngest child as her own, steal him away from him at the eleventh hour, thus leaving Asgard as heartbroken as his actions have forced Jotunheim to be.

I feel sorrow for Thor too, who is staring at his royal counterparts with the kind of defensive defiance of a man who is grimly attempting to protect a treasured possession from a pack of hungry beasts. Brothers... Loki has two younger brothers who seem as ready as their mother to step into the breach created by Thor and Loki's painful estrangement. It must be hard for my dear friend to cope with the idea that Loki is no longer his alone to spoil and protect and fight with. Loki is not even his at all. He's nobody's really, except maybe Frigga's. For her love was the only one Loki cared enough about to accept before his final collapse, and that makes her the only one with any right to claim him at this point.

I feel sorrow for the Jotun queen, too. This strange, tall, and slender creature who looks so very imposing and fragile at the same time that I can't help but think of her centuries-long heartbreak as she mourned a child she thought long dead. A child who was raised to hate her and her kin. A child who has now murdered his own father, and whose unlikely survival she's learned about almost in the same breath as the information that he's languishing in his deathbed once again, ready to be forcibly removed from her grasp a second time.

But I feel sorrow for Loki most of all. Because, although he is at the very center of the actions that have brought all of us together, everyone is far too busy throwing accusations around and suspecting the other of some new form of unthinkable future betrayal to remember how much Loki will despise the very idea of being brought to this realm in order to be treated by a bunch of strangers who will no doubt terrify him. These Jotuns may be his family. They may have always mourned his absence, and be even willing to heal him and carve a place for him in their lives, but they are nothing short of monsters in his eyes. He can not be brought here alone. He can not be allowed to wake up surrounded by enemies, and believe himself abandoned by us once more. He can not be forced to face this: his greatest fear, without our full support. I will not let him.

The queen is adamant about having Loki brought here at once, deaf to the Allfather's patient explanation of how unstable his son's health is, and how an inter-realm trip via Tesseract could possibly kill him. She lets out a pained keen that brings about a hundred icy stalactites crashing to the floor around us every single time Odin mentions the possibility of Loki's demise, but doesn't relent in her demand that he's brought here, regardless of the danger.

She is clearly furious and suspicious and determined to hear not a word about allowing her firstborn to remain under the care of Asgard's royal healers. Her argument that he is a sorcerer, that he is her kin, that whatever ails him deeply enough for the Aesir to be unable to put to rights must be something intrinsically linked to his Frost Giant heritage and, therefore, can only be treated here, where they have the right environment, trained professionals and the natural resources necessary to deliver the care every Frost Giant needs is valid indeed, but useless in this particular situation because bringing Loki here would be the worse mistake we could ever make.

Odin's face is turning more thunderous by the second, and the fact that he's being forced to acknowledge that her reasons for refusing to come to Asgard are the very same ones that have brought us here in the first place isn't soothing his wounded pride at all. He's determinedly refusing to put Loki's ailing body through the trauma of interstellar travel, demanding that the queen and a small entourage of guards and healers accompany us back home, but that plan is being constantly shot down by the Frost Giants, who keep arguing against it in ever-widening circles, wasting our precious time and, more importantly, Loki's.

“I realize you wish to have your child under your roof, your Majesty, but since we're honestly convinced that he will not survive the trip, and his survival is our prime motivation for being here, I can already assure you that the Allfather will not be bringing the prince across in his current condition. You may be willing to argue the point until Ragnarok itself arrives but I, myself, am no longer prepared to sit here and allow any of you to keep wasting what could very well be Loki's precious last hours on petty arguments. Your son may be exhaling his last breath as we speak. This isn't the right time to squabble over 'where' he should be when you finally deign to aid him. Let's leave that fight for later. You'll have plenty of time to blame each other about how and why Loki has been brought down so near his end when he's on the mend. We have to save him now, though, or neither of you will have a trickster to argue about for much longer.” I finally find enough courage to growl into the melee of enraged demands, resentful accusations, and suspicious deal-making that consumes both monarchs' attention, and every single being present halts whatever they've been doing in order to stare at me with similar expressions of astonished befuddlement. They're all clearly shocked by the notion that I, an acknowledged nobody with no rightful claim to my beloved sorcerer, have had the actual gall to raise my voice against the current state of affairs and it is clear by the look on her face that the queen of Jotunheim isn't favorably impressed by either my words or my actions.

“What right do you have to speak thus, warrior?  It is not the place of a soldier to meddle in the affairs of the crown.” She speaks at last, making me shiver with the look of sheer dislike she throws my way.

“Fandral has more right to speak about Loki's well-being than you, or I, Farbauti. His actions saved my son's life when my own couldn't. He was Loki's lover once and, therefore, knows his heart better than most.”

“Is that so?  Correct me if I'm wrong, Allfather, but I've heard the rumor that this warrior has been everyone's lover at least once and, even if that makes him an expert with regards to the secrets kept by plenty of hearts indeed, it still doesn't give him the right to interfere in the affairs of his betters.” She replies unkindly, raking my rigid frame from head to boots with a look of deep contempt.

“That doesn't make his words any less true. Loki's health is too fragile to make the trip to Jotunheim. I will oppose every course of action you suggest that requires him to be transported here. You must come to Asgard, if you intend to aid us at all, Farbauti.”

If looks could kill all by themselves, then both the Allfather and I would have dropped dead at that very second, victims of the poison pouring forth from the crimson-colored stare of our ferocious host. “Very well, then. I shall prepare for traveling to Asgard at once, but I will not place my people in jeopardy just because you claim I can trust you. I demand your firstborn and heir to stay behind as guarantee of my party's safety. He will be treated in accordance to his station, and allowed to travel to Asgard as soon as we return. Your failure to grant me this simple request will be grounds for my refusal to aid you altogether. Do not forget that I have lived two thousand years mourning my firstborn already. I will not enjoy turning my back on him at this point, but I will not risk the lives of so many beloved members of my court and family for his benefit, either.”

Odin bristles at the implied accusation of deceit she isn't even trying to conceal, and I tense when he takes a single step forwards and opens his mouth to speak only the Norns know what words. Thor steps forwards before the Allfather's rising temper can do any damage, though, and his tongue is, for once, faster than his father's. His courage remains, as always, truly unlimited and the generosity of his heart brighter than the very stars that have begun to shine above our heads. “I will remain here, in Jotunheim, then. Thank you, my Lady, for your kind invitation.”

“Thor-”

“Fear not for my sake, father. Staying behind is a small enough price to pay in exchange for my brother's health. Do not forget that these Jotuns must have souls worthy of Loki, and that makes them trustworthy enough for me. I will return home when the queen's party arrives back, safe and sound. Please tell mother not to worry overly much on my behalf, and excuse my absence from our trickster's bedside, if he cares enough to inquire about my whereabouts upon waking.”

The queen's proud head turns ever so slightly to the side, all the better to study Thor's earnest features through her narrow, crimson eyes even as she snorts with enough amused scorn to flay the skin off his back. “I see why they call you brave, child. Nobody has ever dared to both 'question' and 'approve' the _worth_ of my soul to my face before. You will live in interesting times indeed, once you're crowned king of Asgard, for with such unwise tongue you shall offend every leader and high dignitary in the nine realms before your crowning banquet is over. Hold onto your heart, though. For that, and that alone, appears to be golden.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

****Chapter 5** **

  
I have never faced grief head on before now. Her cold shadow has never stood before me long enough to force me to become familiar with either her hair-raising, dry-eyed, and bitter features or the grating, gravelly sound her voice makes when it demands to know why is it that her firstborn looks so fragile a wisp of wind could break him, why is his skin Aesir-white instead of Jotun-blue, why does he lack the distinctive body markings that are the birthright of his race, and why are his still closed eyes rumored to be a deep shade of forest green instead of the crimson color they should be?

Every calmly delivered answer my king offers to those questions leads to further anguish. To a pain that's so profound, so honest, so very... visible... that it shakes me to my core, shaming me with the knowledge that this woman's heartbreaking misfortune has been my unfathomable gain. That her stolen child has graced my life only because she lost him. That the boy I grew up with, the studious teenager and elegant youth I have spent so many waking hours, so many sleepless nights, admiring from afar has only ever been mine to admire because my king committed one of the most despicable of crimes anyone could possibly commit against this mother, who now stands in Asgard's medical bay, setting eyes on her eldest child for the first time in two thousand years, allowing us all to see the kind of unbearable pain I'd have never imagined it was possible for anyone to suffer without losing their sanity altogether.

“Loki. His name is Loki.” She whispers quietly, and her hand raises shakily towards the dark hair that fans, like spilled tendrils of dried ink, across my prince's pillow. Huge blue digits take hold of a single, soft looking lock, curling it round and round a trembling forefinger as its owner swallows loudly, clearly overwhelmed by a longing that feels tangible enough to be properly embraced.

“He has such a tiny frame, mother." Helblindi whispers into the uncomfortable silence, making me jump with the sheer gruffness of his too-loud voice, and my heart crumbles as I listen to those seven simple words. To another brother who has barely even finished setting eyes on Loki for the very first time, and already finds him wanting.

“Yes. He is smaller than Ymir himself. Smaller than we ever imagined. Small enough to be considered the greatest mage ever born in the realm of Jotunheim.”

“Father would have been so proud.” Bylesyr butts in, coming to stand beside the rest of his family, and peering down intently at Loki's face. “He looks just like you, too, or he would, if his features bore the right color.”

Odin fidgets at the foot of the bed, hands curled tightly around the handle of Gungnir, as his lone eye watches over the proceedings with the sort of grim blankness that betrays his growing discomfort with the Jotuns' current proximity to Loki. Queen Frigga is the only one among us who seems at ease with their presence, having gone as far as to dismiss the healers and guards who are usually bustling about the place in a bid to gain the kind of privacy one very rarely enjoys in the medical bays of Asgard.

“His skin will turn as blue as yours if you touch it.” She whispers, ignoring her husband's thoroughly scandalized 'my love!' in favor of offering the slender pale hand she's cradling between her palms up to her clearly shocked counterpart. “Go on, then. Take a proper look at our son. You may have to wait a very long time to see his real features once he wakes, for he hasn't yet learned to be comfortable in the skin he was born with. Give him time, though. Give him patience and honest commitment, and he will eventually shower you with the blessing of his affection.”

Queen Farbauti stares at Queen Frigga with crystal-clear disbelief. “You would share him like a toy?  He is not yours to keep.”

“He's not yours, either!” Odin growls, and I stand to attention and place my right hand on the hilt of my trusty sword as soon as the colossal Jotun princes turn their heads to glare at him, teeth bared in unvoiced threat.

“I have raised a loving son. He won't turn his back on us of his own free will, Farbauti. I do not need to shackle him to my skirts for his heart to be mine, and I would advise you to remember that a trapped bird may be taught to sing for you, but it won't do so willingly. Loki will be allowed to do as he wishes. To feel as he wishes. To love who he wishes. I will not see him caged by anyone ever again. Do you understand me?”

The tense silence that follows feels so thick it could be cut with the flimsiest of hair ribbons. We stand in strained tableau around the bed where my sorcerer lays, and I can't let go of the thought that he's the only oasis of peace in a room full of suspicions, regrets, and barely contained violence. He is the unnatural calm in the eye of a storm that could very well pit Asgard against Jotunheim once again. He is the treasure we all covet. The prize we stand to lose in the aftermath of abominable torture. He is the dishonored prince on whose name Asgard will unleash its revenge-seeking armies until not a single Chitauri soul remains alive. Until they all have paid a thousandfold for every scream of pain they've managed to rip from his throat.  
  
“The firstborn of my line is not meant to be caged. I doubt anyone could achieve such a thing even if they tried.” Farbauti's proud words interrupt my gloomy thoughts, and I watch as the small, tentative smile that had begun to bloom across her lips comes to a premature death when my queen replies very quietly:

“Someone did. They answer to the name of Chitauri, and they seem to have managed to drain Loki's magical core through only the Norns know what terrible means.”

Helblindi's loud roar of rage threatens to leave us all deaf as it raises from his chest, almost drowning both his mother's pained gasp and his brother's shocked exclamation. “That can not be!  Loki's size alone is proof of his immense magical ability. There is no creature alive who could have a single hope of defeating him in magical combat.”

“I can't understand why you keep referring to my prince's height in such terms, Your Highness. I was told his diminutive size would have been a cause of great shame for your people.” I dare to insert into the conversation, forcing myself to stare directly into Helblindi's crimson eyes in the hope of prompting him to clarify his frankly puzzling attitude towards Loki's obvious... smallness.

The Frost Giants look so genuinely bewildered that the scornful sneer that's been plastered all over their faces every single time their gazes had so much as crossed with mine melts off their expressive blue features like a mask made out of paper.

"Why would my son's lack of height shame us?  His small size is a sign of his great power.“ The queen questions sharply, and now it is my turn to gape at her with undisguised confusion, unwittingly betraying the fact that this is not the same tale I've been told. Not by a long shot.

“I may have heard that he was left to die on the steps of your temple for being an unwanted runt.” I'm forced to confess, tone strained with blooming dismay, and it takes all my training as a proud warrior of Asgard not to flinch and take a step backwards when she whirls around and lowers her impressive torso down low enough to snarl directly in my king's face.

“Is that the lie you've fed my child, thief?  Is that the excuse you've wrapped around what was nothing but a royal kidnapping to help you sleep at night?  Is my firstborn lying in his deathbed believing himself to be the reject I didn't want, when I have done nothing but love him all his life and grieve for his absence since the moment he disappeared from mine?  May the Norns curse you with the blackest fate in their arsenal, Odin Allfather, for what you have done to my family deserves nothing short of agony!”

The Jotun queen's pain shines through her words like a blast of sunlight breaking through darkness. It radiates from her like a vapor, wrapping itself around us with a strength that leaves us breathless and forces my king to lower his proud head in obvious shame. “I didn't know it was a lie until much later. I saw him there, a small babe covered by a flimsy blanket that would have never been enough to protect him from the inclement weather and leaped to my own conclusions. He was so small... a beautiful runt whose heart-wrenching wails for help failed to attract anyone's attention. I know you think me a heartless thief, but I have never been anything of the sort. I waited, Farbauti. I fought my way through the warrior ranks protecting your temple, ignoring Loki's cries as best I could. I told myself he wasn't mine to worry about. That he was someone else's responsibility. I waited a veritable eternity before approaching him, trying to see if anyone would step forwards to gather him, but no one ever did, so I assumed that his parents had left him there to die because of his small size. It was the only explanation I could think of to justify why not a single member of your army had bothered to protect him.”

“He was the crowned prince of Jotunheim!  He didn't need anyone's protection. Whoever had tried to touch him without royal permission would have been condemned to death on the spot. That doesn't mean he was unwanted. Or that we left him to die. Only those who are born with a sorcerer's soul have the blessing of a tiny frame in the realm of ice. The smaller the body the greater the magical power it houses. My firstborn's size was a cause of great joy among our people, for it meant that one day we'd be ruled by the only sorcerer king born into Laufey's line since Ymir himself.”

“He was alone and frightened. He looked abandoned to me. He would have died of cold and hunger, if I hadn't rescued him.”

“He may have been alone and frightened, but he hadn't been abandoned. He was under the casket's protection, for it chose him as its wielder from the moment he drew his first breath. There was a possibility for either myself or my husband to have perished that night, but my firstborn's survival was never in question. He should have been safe. Guarded, as he was, by the strongest source of power in the realm. I have never understood how you managed to find him. You shouldn't have been able to lay your thieving eye upon him, let alone touch him for long enough to remove him from the temple.”

“But I did, and that means it was meant to be, Farbauti. Loki's role as Asgard's second prince must have been fated. You may have spawned him, but he was always meant to be my son.”

My heart pounds as the enraged queen takes a step forwards, hate-poisoned eyes brimming with the unadulterated violence of the berserker. I step in front of my king, ready to stand there and serve as his personal living shield if our foe's sensibilities can not be soothed, but such sacrifice on my part is rendered unnecessary by the only voice of reason left in the room, that of my prince's beloved mother. “Loki's thread is thinning by the second. Even if the Norns decided to gift his childhood to us, their design has made it impossible for his Jotun ancestry to remain unacknowledged. His future is in your hands, Farbauti. Surely, at this point, ensuring our son's continued existence is more important than teaching a lesson in subtlety to my hotheaded husband.”

An enraged roar of discontent issues from the slender blue throat of the Jotun leader, but her seething ire seems to deflate, as if prickled with a needle, and she turns her back on us with a dignified huff. The Allfather's callused hand settles on my shoulder, and he squeezes it reassuringly before pushing me out of his way. I stumble sideways slightly, managing to keep my place on the left side of the bed's footrest by sheer dumb luck.

My breath halts when I finally raise my eyes and catch sight of the huge feminine hand that has just settled atop Loki's own, imbuing his pale skin with an unnaturally cold touch that forces it to change before my eyes, darkening it to the very same shade of cobalt blue that covers every inch of the other Jotuns in the room, changing the appearance of my Loki's flesh in such a way that its familiar smoothness shatters under the onslaught of the lines that rise, like mountaintops emerging from the depths of the ocean, to mar his frame with the distinctive moonlight-colored markings of his race.  
  
His nails harden as I watch, breathless and aching with the unutterable pain of seeing the owner of my heart look so alien. They increase in length and blacken to a dark charcoal, curling into the kind of wicked claws that could gore many a warrior without aid. His lips turn from soft pink to pale purple, but his features remain the same: untold beauty made now exquisite by the delicate markings that settle upon his face as if they have always been there. His hair still fans, dark and oh-so-gloriously-soft across his pillow, and I wonder how it will look covered in bright beads even as queen Farbauti's quiet sob breaks the stillness that surrounds us. “Loki. Oh, Loki-”

Helblindi's long arm curls around his mother's slender figure, offering her the quiet support that I'm sure Thor would have been offering to my own queen right about now, if he was here. That's when it dawns on me that we are all similar, deep down. We're all so very similar. Despite our different colors and sizes and backgrounds we all have mothers and lovers and brothers and children. We all care about those who are dearest to us with equal fervor.

“Does he look as he should be, Farbauti?  Is there anything obviously wrong with Loki's Jotun form?” Odin inquires quietly, leaning forwards to gaze at his child's prone body with a shadowed blue eye.

The Jotun queen inches forwards too, her tall and slender body curling protectively downwards over the Allfather's head as her crimson gaze focuses intently on the raised lines that cover Loki's skin, following the same path that the deathly sharp nail of her index finger travels as it shreds the soft tunic my prince is wearing until it has exposed the full expanse of his blue-tinged chest to her avid gaze, allowing her to place her huge palm over the tangle of lines that form a raised knot directly over his heart. Loki's chest shimmers faintly under her touch, emitting the same weakened tendrils of mossy-colored magic that we've grown so used to seeing whenever we scan him nowadays. We stand there, helpless, silent and frozen into reverent stillness as this woman, who once bore him within her, does her best to read what's happening to him.

“His markings are flatter than they should be, and they bear the dull gray color of the disowned. He has never allowed his magic to race through the proper conduits and so they are underdeveloped and... lifeless. His magical reserves are depleted almost completely and, although it looks like part of them has been harvested by force, his magical core remains not only intact, but also untapped. This doesn't make any sense. He seems to have been using his reserves for all his magical needs. It's like he never realized how much power lies dormant within him.”

“That can't be accurate." The king says, looking up to stare at the Jotun Queen with the fire of a proud father blazing in his eye: "Loki has been studying magic almost since he learned to spell out the word. He has gone to great lengths to train himself in every aspect of sorcery. I know his path was quite hard at the beginning, his progress slower than the asgardian females who trained with him. We assumed his constant difficulties were related to his gender and, although I wanted him to focus his efforts on diplomatic training, to which he was infinitely better suited, he refused to follow my advice and persevered in his magical studies until he became proficient enough to take part in Alfheim's magical games. He has been considered one of the strongest sorcerers in the nine realms ever since he won them. Surely someone with such skills would have been able to recognize the true depth of his own magical core.”

Farbauti's gaze narrows thoughtfully as she stares down at her child. Delicate index fingertip tracing the lines that frame his left cheek all the way from forehead to chin before dipping down across his slender neck with an aching tenderness that makes me flinch with sheer discomfort.  “Those news do not discredit my theory. They make it sound all the more probable, in fact. My son is a Frost Giant, yet his frame is small enough to pass for an Aesir's, and not even the tallest Aesir of the lot, but one of regular height. That makes Loki the tiniest Jotun ever born. He is at least six feet shorter than Ymir, who was, as you must know, our greatest mage, the creator of the Casket of Ancient Winters. If Loki had been using the full potential of his magical core all along he would have never been known as _one_ of the strongest sorcerers in the nine realms because nobody would have been able to ignore the fact that he _is_ the most powerful magical being who has ever existed.”

“But he has very little magic left. That is why he is trapped in this cursed coma, isn't it?” Frigga asks, clearly as utterly confused as the rest of us, and we stare at one another in stumped silence, trying to wrap our minds around a conundrum that doesn't make any sense.

“Maybe he has almost no magic as far as he is concerned. It is possible that his lack of knowledge with regards to the real strength of his magical core has led Loki to believe himself drained.” Farbauti offers, shrugging her huge blue shoulders in a gesture that looks both helpless and puzzled.

“That would still not account for why our scans show him dangerously depleted. They are very advanced measuring devices. There is no way they'd have failed to detect that sort of power, regardless of how convinced my son is about his lack of it.” Queen Frigga points out reasonably, frowning up at her Jotun counterpart with more confusion than dislike.

“Magic is 90% belief, my love. If our son considers himself drained, then it is possible that his raw power may be attempting to bring his will into being. The great Ymir is thought to have been able to bend reality itself. To stop time as we know it, and even fool death. Only the Norns know what sort of feats could be achieved by a mage greater than him.”

“No. That's not it. Loki's sharp mind is one of his greatest assets. He has often used it as a weapon against others. I can not imagine any scenario in which he'd fall victim of such simplistic illusion.”

“Frigga-”

“Do not forget that his threads have changed color. Loki is no longer black and green and gold in my hands, and that means he can't be black and green and gold in the hands of the Norns, either. He is blue, Odin: Jotun blue. His body no longer reacts to Asgardian healing techniques. I think Loki's lack of magic has begun to unravel the spell you used to disguise him as an Aesir.”

“You know magic doesn't work that way, my love. A sorcerer may be able to deflect all manner of common spells, if he either sees them coming, is knowledgeable enough to remember how to counter them, or wears a powerful enough talisman, but once a tailor-made charm such as the one I designed specifically for him has taken root only the caster can remove it. His current lack of magic can not possibly be affecting my own spell-work because the power used to anchor it was never his, but mine.”

“He must have found a way. It's the only explanation that makes sense of his current state of health. I know not how he's done it, but the magic that once helped him pass as one of us is no longer whole. His anatomy is shifting one step at a time, reverting to his natural estate as a Frost Giant.”

“Then he is doomed indeed, for no Jotun sorcerer has ever survived the loss of his magic. It's the only way to kill them, and I should know. I have witnessed enough magical executions to make anyone have nightmares.” Farbauti whispers in a tone that's low, pained, and so very full of hopeless fear that the most terrible chill runs up and down my spine in instinctive reaction.

“Are you telling me there is no cure for Loki?” Silence follows Frigga's question like a shadow follows flesh, and sorrow settles slowly upon our shoulders, heavy and unwelcome and bitter, as we stare at Loki's sleeping form with eyes that are beginning to be poisoned by the dreadful weight of defeat, until Helblindi's loud voice shatters the strained quiet.  
  
“What happened to the rest of his magical reserves, then?  You said only part of them had been harvested, mother. He should still have the rest, or be in a position to assimilate back what was stolen as soon as it becomes available, shouldn't he?”

Queen Farbauti gasps, as if startled, and her finger-pads press once more over the tangled knot of lines that crisscross the skin above Loki's heart, searching for only the Norns know what with an expression in her crimson eyes that kindles the embers of hope within me. “That is still here, but it feels faint. I think he may be blocking it himself, on purpose.” She whispers at long last, sounding utterly bewildered.

“That is impossible." My king booms, rejecting that outrageous idea with the same enraged passion that fills my pounding heart: "Loki has been unconscious since he collapsed at the end of his trial. He wouldn't have been able to sustain a blocking spell in his condition, and I refuse to believe he may be tricking us.”

“He could have cast one last hex before collapsing," Queen Farbauti explains in a small, far-away tone that grows haunted by the second, her alien complexion turning a sickly shade of gray. "He could have cast something permanent and specific directed solely at himself, something self-sustaining. He could have tried to seal his magic away of his own free will. Committed magical suicide. The practice has fallen into disuse, but it was common enough among the dark elves of Svartalfheim, back in the days when they fought against every single realm and then some. Elf sorcerers used to seal off their power as soon as they were captured in order to render themselves useless to their enemies. Their pride stung at the idea of becoming a foe's 'magical pet'.”

Odin frowns, clearly uneasy. “I have heard of the practice, but it can't possibly apply to Loki. Why would he fail to cast it when he was first captured but not even hesitate to do so here, among his friends and family, when he knew he was finally being freed?  He'd just escaped the beasts who tormented him. Had learned he wouldn't face the death penalty for his actions in Midgard. There is no logical reason for him to have taken such harsh measures at all.”

“Maybe he underestimated his captors and didn't realize how dangerous they were until they had already rendered him unable to defend himself magically." I offer timidly, indelible memories of thousands of little -and not so little- skirmishes fought beside my beloved prince adding weight to my conviction that I'm the closest among us to the right answer. I know how Loki's mind works when it comes to war mongering. I know how dangerously overconfident in his own abilities he can be, or used to be, back in the days when everything made sense. When he was still one of us. When he hadn't yet attempted to destroy both who -and _what-_ he is by allowing himself to fall into the abyss. "Maybe they stole his essence and threatened to use it to trace him back to Asgard, if he ever tried to escape. Loki told me once that a sorcerer's power does not disperse into the ether when its purpose its served. It returns to his sire instead, maybe not immediately, and maybe not all at once, but it comes back all the same, as long as it's not being forcibly redirected. The prince could have been trying to protect us. Foil his enemies' attempts to follow him here. That could explain his stubborn refusal to defend himself during the trial, my king. He was aiming for the death penalty all along. It would be so like him to have tricked his way back home in order to die among family.”

“Oh, Loki...” Frigga's heartbroken reaction to my wild conjecture gives it more credit than I'd like, and I sag where I stand like a slowly deflating water pouch as we all stand there and stare at the body resting so calmly upon the bed. A prickle of desperate emotion burns the back of my eyes like a hot poker, and the sight of my queen's trembling hand as it settles over Loki's pale cheek, unflinchingly ignoring the cold his skin must be giving off long enough to set in motion the process that will turn his form from Jotun blue to Aesir white, becomes more than I can bear.

“He can't die, though. Can he, mother?  Even if he manages to siphon every last speck of magic from his reserves he still wouldn't be truly depleted. His core would still be there, full to the brim with untapped power. Everybody knows that a sorcerer's magical reserve is negligible in comparison to his core, so the part of his magic that my brother's spell is targeting can be no more than a single drop in a raging ocean. He has enough magic to survive such a small drain, doesn't he?”

Farbauti looks at Helblindi, crimson eyes heavy with dullness despite her child's hopeful words. “Loki won't wake until whatever curse he cast completes it's work, Blindi. By then his mind would have already started to shut down in preparation for what he assumes would be his end. Worse than that, there is a pretty good chance that he won't wake at all because, if his body is reverting back to Jotun, then the fact that he believes himself magicless should be enough to end him while he's lost inside this coma.”

“Then I propose we dampen his magic right now, clamp it in place before his curse has enough time to achieve its purpose. His spell will be frozen mid-work and, although his reserve will be weakened, it should not be gone altogether. He'll have no other option but to wake and face us. He'll be forced to either argue his case or find a way to trick us into releasing the cuffs, if he's that keen on getting rid of his magical reserve before the excess that was stolen from him makes its way back, along with his captors.”

Odin looks at me with the kind of respect most warriors of my generation have spent their entire existence attempting to inspire in him, and I realize that my harebrained plan, born of the purest form of desperation I have ever known, must have more than just a passing chance of succeeding, if he's that impressed by it.

“Yes. That could help. That could save him.” He whispers under his breath, but his voice brims with such purpose that the small sound bounces around the room like an echo does in a cave or the boom of Thor's own thunder as it travels through the skies. Queen Frigga bursts into laughter, the sound half-relief and half-uncertain hope, but as she tries to raise from her chair and come to her husband's side his beringed right hand stalls her mid-motion with a staying little wave.

“No. Stay where you are, dearest, please. I shall command one of the guards outside to bring the magic-dampening cuffs forthwith. We can not afford to waste time, and I... I do not wish for Loki to wake up from his slumber and find himself thus crippled without the comfort of your presence by his side. We both know he won't welcome my company, and I doubt the Jotuns' proximity will soothe him.”

My queen sits back down even as her counterpart flinches, gasping loudly as if the Allfather's words have slapped her across the cheek with mighty force. Helblindi catches her recoiling body and glares towards my liege, murderous rage crystal clear in the crimson depths of his eyes, but the king, who had already started to stride purposely towards the door and is now opening it with enough energy to startle the guards outside, misses the look entirely. “He didn't mean to hurt you, Your Majesty.” I whisper quietly, wondering, even as I say it, what sort of madness is directing me to attempt the thankless task of acknowledging the giants' feelings. Helblindi's glare transfers swiftly towards me, but his brother's appraisal is as contemplative and curious as their mother's own. 

“You've saved him.” She murmurs, her tone low, pained, and vibrating with an emotion I can't name. “If the thief's word has any worth, and I wish not to doubt him when it comes to my firstborn, then this is the second time you've done so.”

“I've done nothing so remarkable, Your Grace. All of us were pooling ideas, mine was just one among many, and we still don't know if it will work.” I reply haltingly, trying -and failing miserably- not to squirm uncomfortably under her intimidating scrutiny. I have never felt so small in all my life, nor so unbearably exposed.

The king's rush towards the bed, carrying the magic-dampening cuffs that Loki has dreaded all his life, brings our stilted conversation to a welcome halt. I shuffle forwards, all the better to focus on my beloved's pale face as his father's age-mottled hands wrap the cold metal around his thin wrists with a gentleness that dries all moisture from my throat. The click of the cuffs sounds vicious and loud in the thickening silence, and I can't tear my gaze away from the delicate way in which my king's fingertips trace around the edge of the metal, checking they're loose enough around Loki's milky-white skin before sweeping downwards across the back of his hands until they have taken hold of my love's elegant digits, and indulged in a single, heartfelt, press against them. I don't know how long the Allfather remains there, holding onto his youngest child with such tenderness, but the low moan of discomfort that suddenly spills from Loki's throat makes us jump as one, and the king let's go of his hands in order to take a reluctant step backwards.

I'm not sure why it surprises me that the Jotuns follow Odin's lead and swiftly melt into the shadows, clearing the area immediately around the bed in a graceless rush to get out of the waking sorcerer's direct line of sight, but it does, so I alone remain frozen to the spot, trapped at the foot of the bed by my own inability to move. My mind whirls with the knowledge that I should make myself scarce too, allow my prince to wake to the lovely features of his dear mother in this, his clearly unplanned return to the world of the living. I force my body to move and my boot scrapes against the polished floor as I slide it backwards in preparation to follow my thoughts with immediate action, but the motion never gets completed because Loki's green eyes flutter open at that moment, rendering me immobile once again as I watch him stare at the queen with obvious confusion.

“Mother?" He calls her, equal parts bewildered and dazed, before muttering grimly under his breath. "This can't be Hel, then.”

“Loki!” Queen Frigga berates him, swatting him on the shoulder with displeasure despite the relieved tears that have begun to roll down her cheeks.

“Do you really think me deluded enough to have aimed for Valhalla?” He questions, clearly incredulous, and I'm pretty sure every heart in the room breaks along with mine as that tellingly self-deprecating query rents the air.

“Such discussion is moot at this point, son. For you're not setting foot on either, if I have anything to do with it.” His father's explosive growl startles Loki into siting bolt upright on the mattress, pushing his right hand towards the sound in the age-old gesture of a sorcerer's dueling stance. His gaze sweeps the room and his jaw hardens when he spots me, thin lips compressing into a taut line of pure disgust that becomes even colder as his eyes fall upon the king. The sudden rigidity that takes over his frame, coupled with the abrupt loss of what little color he had left, and the look of unadulterated terror that flashes through those painfully haunted emerald orbs, betrays the exact moment in which he becomes aware of the fact that there are Frost Giants in the room.

I can't think of a single thing to say as I watch his wary gaze take in the strange tableau around his sickbed. His jaw begins ticking with tension as his slender body shifts on the mattress, turning around until he has placed himself directly between his mother and the rest of us. His shrewd mind must be trying to make sense of what he sees, coming up with all sorts of fantastic scenarios to explain away the presence of Asgard's sworn enemies so deep inside her walls. I know not what conclusion he finally settles on, but my entire being reels with shock as I watch him fail to crumble in abject terror, like I expected him to do. The 'cowardly' trickster of Asgard doesn't scream for help or ask a single question, but his battle-ready arm never wavers as he remains exactly where he is, shielding our beloved queen with his weakened body in the kind of silent statement that doesn't need explanation. My gut churns with the shame of a thousand regrets as I watch the weakling prince of the Realm Eternal become the very picture of blooming rage and that wild, undefinable quality that most trapped predators tend to display. He's a man with nothing to loose, a condemned soldier ready to take down as many enemies as he can before his strength finally abandons him. He's the very soul of a warrior of Asgard in this, the first instant in which my heart looks upon him knowing him to be nothing of the sort.

“The Jotuns are here as my guests, Loki. They mean you no harm, I assure you. You have nothing to fear from them.” His father's quiet explanation makes his raised arm twitch so hard that the loose cuff wrapped around his wrist shifts with the motion, drawing his gaze like a magnet. His features twist with the rage of the berserk as he stares down at the bracelets before lifting his hands to claw shakily at their ornamental edges, tugging them desperately in a vain attempt to release their hidden mechanical catch. 

“I've sealed them with magic. You will not be able to open them, son.” The king says with somber finality, and we are all forced to watch the pure fear that twists Loki's pale features into the very image of trapped despair as his wild gaze settles on his father and he snarls with mounting outrage:  
  
"What have you done, you, fool?  What, in the name of the Norns, have you done to me now?”  
 

**TBC**

  
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